


The Bitch Is Back

by Madame (McKay)



Series: The Monkees Soap Opera [14]
Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 05:50:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10915617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McKay/pseuds/Madame
Summary: Someone from Mike's past shows up on the Pad's doorstep and tries to cause trouble with his relationship with Isabel and his musical career.





	The Bitch Is Back

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 1999.

**October, 1969**  
  
  
"So what do you think?" Mike repeated patiently, taking another sip of coffee  
as he waited for Micky to respond. "About moving?" Micky echoed, leaning his  
elbows on the kitchen table as he contemplated the idea. "I dunno, man...I mean,  
yeah, we've got an advance from Colgems, but I kinda hate to leave this place  
just yet."

"I thought maybe if we took the repairs into our own hands now that we can afford to, we could all stick around until we got some savings built up. It wouldn't be so bad that way," Mike suggested, and Micky nodded enthusiastically. 

"Yeah! Since Babbitt's the one who didn't keep the place up, I'm sure we can get him to keep the rent the same!" he exclaimed. "That way, we can all save money and still stay together." 

"We're gonna go our own ways sooner or later, Mick," he replied, ever the pragmatic one, but Micky just shook his head and grinned. 

"The later the better as far as I'm concerned," he said cheerfully. "I've gotten used to having you guys around now. Just because we're gonna be famous doesn't mean I'm ready to get rid of you yet." 

"That's a comfort. Really, it is." 

Micky blew a raspberry at him, then jumped up to see if there was anymore leftover pizza in the fridge, but it appeared either Davy or Peter had beaten him to it--probably Davy, he grimaced in disappointment. At the table, Mike picked up the issue of Billboard which had the latest top forty chart, and Micky caught him smiling as he stared at the entry for the number five spot: "Last Train to Clarksville." 

He was still pretty blown away himself; everything had happened so fast! One minute, Mike had turned to them, white faced and shaking, the phone receiver slipping from his fingers as he informed them in a voice that was barely above a whisper that a representative from a record company had heard them perform the weekend before and wanted to discuss cutting a single. The next, that single--"Clarksville"-- was climbing the charts and they had a brand-new deal for a full length record which they were scheduled to start recording in two weeks as well. 

But his pleasant reverie was abruptly shattered by a knock at the door; he glanced over at Mike, who merely shrugged as if to say, "you're already up, shotgun," and Micky rolled his eyes before bounding over to answer the door. 

Throwing it open, he found a girl standing there, smiling expectantly. Tall, blonde and fashionably slender, she was the ideal of youthful beauty, and Micky knew if Davy had been there, he would've immediately begun flirting with her. 

Glancing uncertainly at a slip of paper she held and then back at him, the girl gave him a hopefully questioning look. "I'm looking for Michael Nesmith," she said, her voice soft, low and possessed of a familiar Texas accent. "Does he live here?" 

"Yeah, he does." Micky stepped back and held the door open wider in wordless invitation. "Hey, Papa Nez! You got company!" he yelled. 

Mike jerked his head up, his features crinkled in a puzzled frown that suddenly dissolved into astonishment. His jaw dropped, his dark eyes grew round, and he visibly paled as he stared at the young woman standing in the doorway. 

"Mike...?" Micky darted concerned glances between Mike and the stranger, who appeared far more delighted than Mike did. 

"My God..." Mike rose slowly to his feet, his eyes never leaving the girl as he skirted the table and walked over to join them, looking like a man in a daze. "What the hell are YOU doing here?" he demanded at last, his voice rough and harsh. 

"Mike? Who is she? What's going on here?" Micky asked, bewildered. He'd never known Mike to act so rude to someone--especially a girl--before. 

"Mick, I'd like you to meet an old...friend of mine," he said at last, seeming to spit out the word as if it were distasteful. 

Mike's gaze still hadn't left the girl's face, but it had by no means softened; Micky had never seen him look as hard and cold before. Meanwhile, the girl seemed oblivious to his animosity, smiling shyly up at him, her expression coyly flirtatious. 

When he spoke again, Mike's voice was quiet but filled with a low thrum of anger. "Micky Dolenz, meet Caroline Maxwell." 

" _That_ Caroline Maxwell?" Micky asked softly. 

Mike nodded grimly, his eyes never leaving the girl's face. "Yeah, _that_ Caroline Maxwell." 

_Oh, shit..._ Micky swallowed hard, his stomach knotting in apprehension. Mike hadn't said much about Caroline, but what little he had said was more than enough to let the rest of them know this unexpected reunion was _not_ something Mike would have wanted had he been given a choice. 

"Um...Hi." Micky held out his hand, trying to be more polite than he actually felt like being towards her. He wouldn't tell her it was nice to meet her--it wasn't. He already knew she'd hurt Mike badly in the past, and he was indignant about it on his friend's behalf--too much so to want to strike up a chummy relationship with her. 

"Hello." She smiled and shook hands with him. "Aren't you going to invite me in?" she asked pointedly, looking at Mike. 

Grudgingly, Mike stepped back into the room, out of the way so she could enter. Gliding across the threshold like a beauty queen, Caroline glanced around at their Pad, taking in the shoddy decor, not quite curling her lip in distaste, but her expression came very close. 

Taking a seat on the couch, she smiled a little TOO warmly at Mike and patted the cushion next to her; he ignored her, choosing to perch on the black chaise instead. Her face fell slightly, but she wasn't to be defeated so easily. 

"I asked what you're doin here, Caroline," Mike repeated, his tone still containing a sharp edge, and Micky retreated to the kitchen, wanting to stay out of the way. 

"Can't two old friends get together for a visit?" she cooed. "It's been a long time, Michael." 

"Mike," he corrected tersely. "I ain't been Michael since I left Texas, we're _not_ old friends, and as far as I'm concerned, it ain't been long enough." 

"You changed," she said, not quite pouting. "You were never so rude before." 

"I've grown up," Mike replied, and even though his face was all but expressionless, Micky could see his right hand--the side not facing Caroline--was clenched into a tight fist. "And you're not welcome here." 

"Why? Because of one little mistake? Michael--Mike--" She corrected herself carefully. "You're not allowing for the fact that I might have grown and changed too." 

"What you've done is of no concern to me," he retorted. "It's--" 

But whatever he had planned to say was lost when the front door opened once more and all three of them glanced up to see Izzy standing on the threshold. 

~*~*~ 

Isabel paused in the doorway, bewildered by the strange tension she felt as soon as she opened the door to the Pad; Mike was sitting on the chaise, and when he turned to look at her, his face was carefully neutral, but she could see anger flashing in his eyes, and she wondered what had brought it on. 

Perhaps the stranger...? 

She glanced over at the woman on the couch, noting with more than a little irritation how the stranger was smiling flirtatiously at Mike. The new-comer was tall and slender with honey-blonde hair that fell in soft waves around her pixieish face; her blue eyes were limpid, turning especially beguiling when she gazed at Mike, and her candy-pink mouth was curved in a small, mysterious smile. 

Overall, she made Isabel feel very short, dark and dumpy indeed. 

"Isa..." Mike jumped up, moving quickly to her, and he slipped his arm around her shoulders as he guided her into the room. "Come on in. There's someone you should meet." 

She darted a questioning look up at him as he led her back to the chaise, sitting down once more and pulling her down beside him, keeping her so close to his side that she felt as if she were glued there. Most unusual behavior! she thought, even more curious now than before. 

"Isabel Evans, this is Caroline Maxwell," he said matter-of-factly, and her eyes flew open wide as she stared at the other woman. 

" _That_ Caroline Maxwell?" she asked, glancing at Mike for confirmation. 

At his nod, she turned her gaze back to Caroline, regarding the woman through narrowed eyes. 

_Bitch_ , she thought, seething with hostility. Even though she didn't know all the details of what had happened between them years before, she knew enough to know she didn't like Caroline Maxwell at all. No one had the right to play head games with another person like that. 

"Caroline, I'd like you to meet Isabel--my girlfriend," he added, heavily emphasizing the word, and Isabel smiled sweetly at Caroline, slipping her arm around Mike's waist and nestling close. 

"Really." Caroline's expression didn't change from the sweetly shy look she had been giving Mike, but there was an edge of steel in her voice. "Are you indeed." 

"Yes." Isabel decided to go for broke--this wench needed to be taken down a notch or two, and she didn't mind being the one to do it. Gazing up at Mike oh-so adoringly, she wrapped both arms around him and hugged him tight for a moment. "We've been together for almost three years now." 

"Congratulations," Caroline replied, and Isabel had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at the transparent insincerity. "Well..." She rose gracefully to her feet and stood there, posed like a model on a runway. "I won't take up any more of your time..." 

If she had hoped someone would protest and ask her to stay, she was doomed to disappointment; Mike just gave her one of his patented Nesmith Deadpan Looks, and Isabel merely smiled lovingly up at Mike as if he were the best thing since sliced bread, hoping she was making Caroline physically ill with the display. 

Micky--who had been standing out of the way in the kitchen--abruptly darted to the door and held it open for Caroline with a bow and flourish as if he were being courteous, but the minute she was out the door and he had all but slammed it shut behind her, he turned to face Mike and Isabel, his expression one of exaggerated dislike. 

"Bitch," he announced, and Isabel smiled broadly. 

"I'll thank you not to insult the woman I was once madly in love with," Mike said, his face and tone completely serious. 

"Wha--?" Micky stared at him, surprised, and Isabel just snorted. 

"Let _me_ do it," he concluded, suddenly grinning, and Micky laughed, visibly relieved. "Thank God I grew up and got some sense," he added, glancing down at Isabel with a fond look that warmed her all the way down to her soul as he lightly stroked her hair. 

"I take it she wasn't expected?" Isabel asked dryly, and Mike shook his head vehemently. 

"Hell, no! If I'd known she was comin, I'd have left town," he growled. "I got no interest in seein her. Not now, not ever. She's part of my past that I gladly put behind me, and I don't wanna dredge it all up again. It's over and done with. All I want to focus on is the future." 

Capturing her chin in his fingers, he bent to kiss her lightly, and she returned it willingly, but in the back of her mind there fluttered a tiny niggle that kept making her wonder if Mike's past in the form of Miss Caroline Maxwell was going to be dismissed as easily as he wanted it to be... 

~*~*~ 

Mike had gradually begun to relax his guard a little after three days passed with no word from Caroline; perhaps she had taken the rather blunt hint he had given her and decided to crawl back under whatever rock she'd crept out from. He _hoped_ she had, anyway. Life was going good at the moment, and he didn't want any complications--especially not from _her_. 

One thing he knew for certain: whatever he had once felt for her was dead. Looking at her, he had felt nothing but annoyance that she'd taken it upon herself to intrude on his life when his past with her--and what he'd done immediately following it--was something that felt like another lifetime entirely. He was a different person now, and he didn't want his life cluttered up with useless relics that only served as unwanted reminders of ancient history. 

Isabel hadn't said anything about the incident, and he hoped she wasn't suffering any jealousy or insecurity about it because she had no reason to. He no longer found Caroline attractive--not because she wasn't pretty but because he knew the type of person who lurked beneath that outwardly lovely shell--and he could scarcely believe he'd ever been blind and naive enough to fall for her. 

_Much like Peter..._ he thought with a frustrated sigh as he glanced out the back window out at the beach where Peter and Deborah could be seen having another argument. 

_No,_ he corrected himself, _Deborah_ was fussing at Peter over something either trivial or imaginary, and Peter was cowering in front of her, taking the tongue-lashing and apologizing profusely for whatever it was he hadn't really done. 

Only a month together, and already Peter was that whipped, Mike thought with growing dislike for the young woman. Still, it wasn't terribly surprising given Peter's eager-to-please nature. He just hated the fact that Deborah--whom he and the others had privately taken to calling "Bitch Girl"--took advantage of Peter like that. And no amount of talking to Peter made him see what she was doing to him. In his eyes, she was perfect, and HE was the lowlife who wasn't worthy of her because he couldn't please her. 

"Bitch Girl at it again?" Davy asked casually as he strolled out of the downstairs bedroom, still fastening his top shirt button. "I 'eard 'er yelling." 

"Yep," Mike replied grimly, jerking his thumb towards the window so Davy could see for himself. 

"What a bleedin' shrew..." Davy shook his head as he stared out at the couple. "What does 'e see in 'er anyway? I mean, yeah, she's pretty, but still..." 

"A pretty face don't mean a pretty person," Mike remarked, thinking of Caroline. 

"Exactly." Davy nodded agreement as he dropped down into a chair beside Mike at the kitchen table and reached over to nab a piece of Mike's toast, and Mike let him. "She's using 'im, and I don't like it." 

"I don't either, but we've all talked to him til we're blue in the face, and it ain't doin any good." Mike blew out a frustrated sigh. "If he hadn't been hurt so bad by Valerie, maybe he could've stood up to Deborah, but no--he had to rebound right into her." 

"Yeah..." Davy sighed as well. "I 'ope she loses interest soon." 

"Are you kiddin?" he snorted derisively. "A chick like that let go of an up-and-coming musician? I doubt it. If he were still a nobody, she probably wouldn't have given him the time of day." 

"Aw, now that's not fair!" Davy exclaimed. "Petah could get a girl--" 

"I'm not sayin he can't," Mike explained patiently. "I'm sayin she's a gold digger. She doesn't care about Peter, just about the money he's makin--and is gonna make if we keep on cuttin records. She thinks she's found a meal ticket, and she's not gonna let go willingly." 

"Yeah, you're probably right." Casting another worried glance out the window, Davy shook his head. "I wish there was something we could do..." 

"Me too." 

Munching down the last bit of his pilfered toast, Davy smiled and tilted his head quizzically. "So what about that girl? Caroline? 'Ave you 'eard from 'er again?" 

"No, thank God!" Mike blurted. "She hasn't been around, and I hope she doesn't ever come back here again! I got nothin to say to her, and I don't want any of the problems she could stir up with me'n Isa." 

"Sorry to disappoint you, mate..." Davy said slowly, pointing out the window, his expression one of dismay. "But 'ere she comes now..." 

"Shit." Mike grumbled, his features knitting in a forboding scowl. 

Rising to his feet, he moved swiftly to intercept Caroline outside before she could reach the steps leading to the beachside door; he didn't want her in their house again, and since he didn't think they had anything else to say to one another, he planned to keep this unpleasant encounter as brief as possible. She saw him coming and stopped, setting the briefcase she was carrying down in the sand. 

"What do you want?" he demanded as soon as he loped down the steps and confronted her; in the distance, he was vaguely aware of Peter and Deborah moving away, perhaps because Deborah didn't want _her_ scene upstaged by the one Caroline was probably going to throw, he thought snidely. 

"My, my, my," Caroline drawled, smiling coyly up at him, all but fluttering her eyelashes as she tried to flirt. "You didn't used to be so abrupt, Michael." 

"Just tell me what in God's name you're doing here, and then leave," he all but snarled at her. 

"I wanted to talk to you," she replied smoothly. "I thought perhaps we could mend a few fences." 

"No." Mike shook his head firmly, folding his arms across his chest. "I don't care about mendin fences with you. All I want is you to leave me alone." 

"So stubborn..." She trailed one finger along his forearm, her blue eyes soft and her voice gentle. "Such a strong will. Where did it come from? As I recall, you were never like this with me." 

"I've always been stubborn," he replied stiffly. "What you saw was me willin to do anything to please you. But it was never enough. Never good enough." 

"Things change, Michael." Stepping forward, moving so close to him that he could feel the warmth of her body radiating against his, she leaned slightly against his shoulder. "People change." 

Without warning, Mike stepped back, causing her to stumble, and he didn't reach to help her steady herself; instead, he gave her a stony glare. 

"What you don't seem to understand is I don't care," he informed her coldly. "Lemme see if I can get it through your head: go away. Don't come back." 

Caroline backed away, her flirtatious air dissipated like the morning dew--as if it had never existed--as she gazed at him in cool appraisal. 

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Michael, but it doesn't change things as far as I'm concerned," she informed him matter-of-factly. 

"What are you talkin about?" he demanded, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. 

"I want you back," she announced as if it were a fait accompli, something that would happen no matter what. "Giving you up was the biggest mistake of my life, and I want to correct that mistake. We had it good together, and I want that back--and I'm prepared to do anything to get it. To get YOU." 

Mike stood practically vibrating with anger, white-hot fury erupting deep within, and it was all he could do to keep control of his temper; if he slipped even the slightest bit, he didn't know what would happen or what he would do to her. How DARE she? How oblivious was she, waltzing back into his life and blithely assuming he'd be more than happy to pick up where they'd left off? The sheer unmitigated gall of her assumption infuriated him, and if she kept on provoking him, he didn't trust himself to remain anywhere near her. 

"There is _nothing_ you can possibly do to get me to walk ten feet down the sidewalk with you," he ground out through clenched teeth. "Much less get back together with you. You can forget that stupid fantasy right now." 

"Oh, but it's not a fantasy, Michael," she replied with an air of confidence. "It's going to be a reality--and I know just how to make it happen." 

"Go to hell," he snapped, then pivoted sharply on his heel, intending to walk away. 

"Dangerous words to say to _me_ , Michael!" she called out. "Given what I know about you!" 

He froze, momentarily paralyzed by the implication of her words. No...It was impossible. All the things he'd tried so hard to put behind him had all occured after he left Farmer's Branch; Caroline couldn't possibly know anything really awful... 

Slowly he turned to face her once more, his eyes narrowing dangerously. 

"What the hell're you talkin about?" he demanded harshly. 

"Simple," she purred, picking up her briefcase and rummaging around in it one-handed. "I did a little research before I came out here because I suspected you'd have this sort of negative attitude. I wanted to be prepared, and I am--I've got a lot of information here that would be quite damaging to your up-and-coming career. Who wants a hoodlum for a teen idol, hm?" Her smile turned vulturous. "Just one small part of this lengthy dossier is more than enough to send your precious little girlfriend running for the hills and to kill any chance you've got of succeeding in the music industry." 

Mike stared at her, stunned into silence. He could scarcely believe what he was hearing, to conceive of the depraved lengths she was willing to go to get what he wanted. 

"Why?" he asked hoarsely. 

"Because I like the idea of being the wife of a rock star," she replied matter-of-factly. "And I want you back at my heels. No one has ever been to me what you were, and I want that back." 

"You want a willing slave again," he sneered. "You won't get it. Y'know, I thought I just disliked you, but this--you've made sure it turned into complete contempt. You're nothing to me, Caroline. You're not worth another thought." 

With that, he turned and began storming back to the Pad once more, but even after he had slammed the door shut behind himself, he could still hear her final words ringing in his ears: "Don't be so quick to brush me off, Michael! Give it some thought and make sure you're willing to give up everything just to thwart me! I'll be in touch!" 

~*~*~ 

Two days later, Mike paced restlessly in the middle of Isabel's living room as he waited for her to return home; she wasn't at work, thankfully. He really didn't think he could stand to wait that long. No, ever since she'd been fired from the newspaper, she had concentrated more on fiction-writing. Even after Michael died, she didn't try to get another job in journalism. Instead, she seemed happy working on her first novel and selling the occasional short story. 

He'd been arguing with himself ever since Caroline had raised the ugly spectre of blackmail, but his decision remained the same even though he knew he was taking the biggest risk of his entire life. Now all that remained was to tell the others--they'd known something was bugging him, but they'd tactfully left him alone to work it out himself--and Isabel was first. 

Finally he heard her key in the front door, and he rushed to open it, obviously startling her as she stared at him with alarm in her eyes over the top of two heavy grocery bags. Taking them from her, he hurried to deposit them in the kitchen. 

"Anything perishable in there?" he asked, and she shook her head mutely. "Good. C'mere." He clasped her hand and led her to the couch, sitting down and pulling her down next to him; instead of releasing her hand, he laced his fingers with hers, squeezing gently as he gazed at her, hoping that things wouldn't fall apart after this confession. 

But he knew she loved him, and more importantly, she accepted him unconditionally. Unlike Caroline, Isabel had never made demands on him; she had never asked him to change or to serve her. She was a giver, not a taker, and he had found himself willing to unleash the giver part of his own nature that he'd deliberately hidden; he'd vowed never to be taken advantage of by a woman again, but Isabel had taught him that not every woman was like Caroline--thank God. 

"What is it?" she asked softly, reaching out to caress his cheek lightly with the back of her free hand. "Is something wrong?" 

"Yeah, there is," he admitted quietly, glancing down at their joined hands. "But I'm hopin what I'm about to say will make things right instead of screwin em up worse." 

"What--?" 

"Just listen, okay?" He placed a gentle finger against her lips, and she obediantly fell silent, waiting and watching him expectantly. 

Drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he looked up and met her eyes. 

"There's some stuff I need to tell you," he began softly. "Stuff about me and about my past. Stuff I've never told anyone, not even the guys." 

~*~*~ 

1965  
  
  
  


Mike stumbled to the fridge, fumbling almost blindly with the contents once he'd managed to open the door, his bleary eyes refusing to focus properly quite yet; he hadn't been awake long even though it was after five o'clock in the afternoon, but even still he knew he'd need a little extra help to bring himself to full alertness. Grabbing a beer, he opened it and took a gulp--and used it to swallow the uppers he held tight in one hand. 

By the time he finished the beer, the pills had kicked in, and he darted around with much more energy as he prepared to go out for the night. It was early yet, but he wanted to ride around for a while before he started hitting the clubs. 

He pulled on the first pair of jeans he found, heedless of the fact that they were faded nearly white and had holes in both knees. Then he pulled on a wrinkled black tee shirt which he didn't bother to tuck in, and his black leather jacket. Racing through shaving and brushing his teeth, he fingercombed his hair and dashed out the door, heading for his motorcycle which was parked in the alley beside the run-down, rat and roach infested hole in the wall wherein the single room apartment he called home was located. 

Revving up the bike's engine, he accelerated quickly and roared onto the street, ending up on the highway where he dodged and weaved among the cars, reaching speeds that made the four-wheeled vehicles look as if they were standing still. 

When he reached the bar--a seedy dive whose bartender served cheap booze and didn't bother to check ID--he swaggered inside, heading straight for the bar. The bartender had asked if he wanted his usual, and he nodded, glancing around as he waited for the shots of tequila to be lined up, his expression bored. His eye fell on a lovely brunette at the end of the bar; she smiled flirtatiously, and he nodded to acknowledge her, but when she beckoned to him with one finger, he snorted and looked away. Never would he answer a woman's beck and call again. 

In the end, she had gone to him, brazenly letting him know exactly how interested she was--until someone who was either a disgruntled husband or boyfriend showed up. Normally Mike didn't consider these situations worth fighting about, but he'd already gotten a considerably number of shots under his belt, and the jilted lover threw the first punch. 

Mike staggered away with a black eye, bruised knuckles, sore ribs and the woman. The lover was left unconscious on the floor of the bar. 

The next day, he woke up in a strange room, lying in a strange bed; in the morning light, the woman appeared faded and haggard, and as his memory came flooding back, he felt nauseated as much from his recollections of the night before as the hang-over he now suffered. Stumbling into the bathroom, he was shocked by his own appearance--pale, bruised, deep black circles lining his eyes, streaks of blood--his own? the lover's?--standing out against his parchment white skin, his body was screaming in pain, and his nerves were screaming for the uppers he normally started the day with...How many times had he woken up just this way? Far too many to count...He was a wreck. 

His _life_ was a wreck. 

And for what? 

~*~*~ 

"...That day was a revelation for me," Mike continued softly. "I started making changes then. It wasn't easy, and I had plenty of rough times ahead, but it wasn't long before I met the guys. We formed the band, moved in together, I met you...Things got better. *I* got better. All I wanna do now is put all that shit behind me for good." 

Isabel watched him silently for a moment, her expression inscrutable, and he grew nervous about her reaction, but she left her hand in his, and if anything he thought he saw pity rather than horror in her eyes. 

"I don't understand," she began hesitantly. "Why are you telling me all this now?" 

He sighed and squeezed her fingers gently, relieved to feel her return the gesture. "Caroline," he said matter-of-factly. "She came here a couple of days ago, implyin she had a lot of information on me and that she'd use it to destroy my image--and the group's career--if I didn't give her what she wanted." 

Isabel visibly bristled, and Mike relaxed completely, knowing without her having to say so that she was on his side no matter what. "And what's that?" she demanded, but he knew her simmering anger wasn't directed at _him_. 

"To be the wife of a famous musician." 

He silently counted, waiting for the eruption, and when it came, it was spectacular. 

"WHAT?!" Isabel's outraged roar nearly took the roof off the house, and her grip on Mike's hand suddenly became painfully tight, but he didn't dare try to loosen it at the moment. "That disgusting, loathesome, selfish, gold-digging _bitch_! How _dare_ she waltz in here after treating you like dirt and make demands! I don't care _what_ information she's got! She is _not_ going to manipulate you like that!" 

"Damn right she's not," Mike replied firmly. "You've just heard the worst of it. If you can accept that and still love me--" 

"Of course I do," she interrupted, appearing affronted that he could even question that in the slightest degree. "You're not that person anymore. You never were, really. You were just learning hard lessons the in hardest possible way." 

"Well, then, there's half the problem solved right there," he finished. 

"What's the other half?" 

"Well..." He grimaced, hating to make this particular admission. "She's right about one thing. The record company knows we've got a reputation for being good boy types--y'know, not in the drug scene and all that. They want to capitalize on that, but if I've got this shady past draggin behind me..." He trailed off significantly, and a shadow crossed Isabel's face as she digested the implications. 

"It might ruin your career before it even gets started," she finished softly, and he nodded, his features drawn in somber lines. 

"Well..." Isabel tapped one finger against her cheek, appearing lost in thought for a moment. "First, I think you need to tell Micky, Peter and Davy what you just told me. Then we'll figure out a solution to this--all of us together." 

~*~*~ 

Mike shifted uncomfortably in his chair and tugged at his shirt collar with one finger, wishing he could loosen his tie, but he didn't dare--not with a sea of journalists and photographers staring as he, Micky, Peter and Davy waited for the time to begin their first-ever press conference. Colgems had arranged it in order to promote their first album which was scheduled to be released in a matter of weeks, and it was the first official exposure to the media that they had gotten. A couple of press hounds had dropped by the Pad for an informal interview, but so far, they'd been largely ignored since they weren't up to the level of other, better-known recording artists yet. 

That was probably about to change, however, Mike thought with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Lots of things were about to change--hopefully for the better, but perhaps for the worst. 

The conference began, and the questions were easy at first, consisting of banal topics such as musical influences, where they were from, how they got into music, even such trivialities as their favorite color; Mike had taken his usual minimalist approach, content to let Micky and Davy show off. But as time wore on, the questions became more in-depth until someone finally asked a question that Mike immediately recognized as his perfect opportunity to introduce the main point he wanted to make that day: "Do you consider yourselves to be potentially good role models for today's youth?" 

The four friends exchanged looks, Micky and Davy grinning as they probably formed sarcastic responses in their minds, but they never got the chance to speak them aloud. 

"I certainly don't think _I_ am," Mike spoke up quietly but firmly, and his answer drew all attention to him, making heat sting his cheeks at the sudden scrutiny. 

"The quiet one speaks!" One waggish member of the press corps exclaimed. "What do you mean, Mike?" 

"Well..." He began slowly, sweeping a level gaze across the room. "I mean that I shouldn't be considered a role model by anybody 'cause I've done some real stupid stuff in my life. Stuff I ain't too proud of. If you check my record, you'll see I've been arrested twice for drunk and disorderly conduct, and I was brought in for questionin once for suspected possession of illegal substances with intent to sell. Not something any parents want their kids to do," he added with a wry smile. 

"What happened?" someone called out. "What made you stop?" 

"Music," he said simply. "It was my first love, and I gave it up for a long time, but then I remembered how much it meant to me and how satisfiyin it was--a lot more than the stuff I was doin. I started playin and writin songs again. Then I met up with these guys. Gettin the band together was first thing that helped me put all that behind me." 

"What was the second?" 

"A very special lady," came his quiet response. "She inspires me, and my friends motivate me. I got no need to go back to the life I was livin back then." 

There was a murmur through the crowd, but before anyone could fire more questions at Mike, Peter--who had also been quiet--spoke up. 

" _I_ think Mike's a good role model," he said shyly. "Sure, he did all that bad stuff in the past, but he stopped, and it doesn't mean he's not a good person. He's smart, and he's talented, and he's responsible. He looks after me all the time." 

"Yeah, we don't 'old Mike's past against 'im," Davy chimed in. "It's not important--it's over and done with, and 'e's not like that anymore. It's who 'e is _now_ that matters to us." 

"And now, he's our big brother," Micky added, his features completely serious for the first time since the interview began. "If it weren't for him, we probably wouldn't be here. All of us helped get the band to this point in one way or another, but Mike's the one who's had the drive and ambition to keep us going even when times were so tough, it seemed easier to give up instead of fighting to make it. So yeah," he said, punching Mike's shoulder lightly, his trademark sunny grin bursting forth. "we've got at least one good role model in the group." 

~*~*~ 

A small but pleased smile curved Mike's lips as he strolled along the shoreline, the wet sand squishing pleasantly beneath his bare feet; with one arm around Isa's shoulders and his tie finally loosened, he felt more relaxed than he had in days--since Caroline's unexpected arrival. 

With the press conference over, he felt free of her shackles now; he'd taken away any power she might have held over him now. And he had his friends to thank for it. It was Micky who had suggested making a confession to the press, and Davy had suggested doing it at the first opportunity that presented itself at the press conference. Peter, Isa and Mags had supported the decision one hundred percent, and they all assured him that no matter what happened, they were behind him. Even if it meant their music careers were temporarily put on hold. 

But far from facing imminent ruination, the confession had worked oddly in their favor, especially with the others' vehement public support of their friend; Mike had come off as a bad boy who had made good--a living embodiment of the American Dream--and the media had eaten it up. So had the representative of Colgems, who was delighted by Mike's history--and the sort of publicity it could generate for the band and especially for the record company. 

As soon as they all got back to the Pad, he'd dragged Isa out to the beach for a little private time so he could unwind alone with her; reading his mood correctly, she'd remained silent, keeping one arm around his waist and offering her support through her presence, which was all he needed at the moment. But the sun was falling into darkness on the horizon, and the breeze was growing chilly; it was time to head back home. 

As they drew nearer to the Pad, he saw an unfamiliar feminine figure standing near the beach-front steps, but as he got closer, even in the fading light he could see a halo of golden hair. She was looking over the beach--outside the house, of course. The others would never have let her inside. His stomach clenched tight as he braced himself for a confrontation. 

Caroline watched them approach, her demeanor cool and collected, and her eyes were unreadable as Mike moved to stand across from her, careful to keep his own expression neutral. 

"Seems to me you ain't got any more business here," he said, folding his arms across his chest. 

"You're wrong," she replied smoothly. "I do." 

"Then get it over with and get out," he growled. "You're still not welcome." 

"I underestimated you," she told him evenly. "I never dreamed you'd go to the press yourself. I thought surely that would be a deathblow to your career." 

"Nope." He allowed the barest hint of a triumphant smile to play at the corner of his mouth. "You played your hand, and you lost." 

"More than you know," she said softly, and if he didn't know her better, he would have said there was a hint of wistfulness in her voice. "I thought you would be like you were." 

"No one stays the same, Caroline, and you can't ever go back," he replied, his meaning encompassing both himself and her. 

"I suppose not..." She shrugged slightly, sighed and gave a little smile. "Well, I tried. What a pity. I think we could have been good together. We were once." 

"No, we weren't," he said firmly. "I was good for you. You were hell for me." 

Isabel, who had been standing silently by his side during this exchange, placed her hand flat against the small of his back--a light touch, but it achieved its purpose, which was to offer him strength and support. 

"Well, you won," Caroline stated flatly. "I won't bother you anymore. I suppose I should never have come in the first place, but I wanted you back, Michael...Mike." She corrected herself with a wry smile. "I don't suppose you'll believe me when I say I realized long ago that you were the best thing that ever happened to me, and I was a fool to let you go." 

Mike frowned and shook his head, but Isabel nodded solemnly. 

"I believe you," Isa said, and for a moment, the two women gazed at each other not in rivalry but in understanding. 

"Good-bye, Mike," Caroline said at last, lifting one hand in farewell as she turned away from them. 

"Good-bye, Caroline." It was for good this time, and they both knew it. 

He watched silently as she walked away, but as soon as she was out of sight, he grasped Isa's hand and led her up the steps to the balcony; as if by an unspoken mutual agreement, they gravitated to the rail, leaning on their elbows as they watched the last tendrils of light sink into the ocean. 

"Are you okay?" Isa asked at last, her voice low and filled with concern. 

"Yeah..." He sighed and rested his chin in his hand. "I hated havin to relive all that stuff. Not just my hell-raiser phase, but my past with Caroline, too. Seein her...It brought back a lot of feelins that I thought I'd grown out of. But I can still remember how I felt with her, what a stupid kid I was..." 

"You were very young and in love," she replied, rubbing his back comfortingly. 

"Yeah. And stupid," he repeated. "I made mistakes with her that I promised myself I'd never make with another woman again, but..." He paused and slanted a rueful look at her. "I think I might've over-compensated." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean, I don't tell you stuff like I did with her. I don't even use endearments with you like I did with her," he admitted. "I keep stuff inside a lot more. I dunno. I guess I've been thinkin that maybe it's time for me to let go of some of those old fears. They're useless now, anyway. I've got nothing to fear from you or the others." 

"No," she agreed as she leaned her head against his shoulder. "You don't. You never did. But I don't mind how you are, Mike," she assured him. "I'm used to it, and I don't need you to tell me anything. You _show_ me--every day. I know how you feel without you having to say it." 

"Well, that's good." He smiled, and she wagged her finger mock-reporvingly at him. 

"That's _not_ to say, however, that it wouldn't be nice once in a while!" she added, a teasing note in her voice. 

"How 'bout I do one more thing to show you before I tell you anything?" he asked, casually sliding one hand into his pocket, closing it around a small object that rested there. 

She stood up straight, her expression radiating curiosity as she watched him. "Like what?" 

Pulling his hand free again, he held it up--revealing a diamond ring between his thumb and forefinger. "I figure this would show everybody how I feel about you," he said, trying to sound nonchalant as possible when in reality, his stomach was in knots, and he could feel sweat trickling down his back as he waited for her response. 

"Is that...? Are you...?" She stared at him blankly, not quite able to get the words out. 

"I've been carrying this around for a while now, waitin for the right time, and I suppose now is as good as any. I'm askin if you'll do me the great honor of becomin my wife." He turned to face her, clasping her left hand. "Will you?" 

"You even have to ask?" Tears sprang in her eyes, threatening to overflow as she gazed up at him, joy lighting up her entire face. 

"I suppose not, but Mrs. Evans would have my hide if I didn't do this right," he said, deliberately teasing her, and he managed to coax out a chuckle through her tears. 

Her hand trembled as he slipped the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand, then raised it to his lips to seal the promise with a kiss. 

"So it's official." His tone was mock-somber. "You're gonna be stuck with me now." 

"I could think of worse fates," she replied, rising to his bait as she always did. "Not off-hand, mind you, but given enough time, I'm sure I could come up with something." 

Laughing softly, he gathered her in his arms and pulled her close--his fiancee. Soon to be his wife. He liked the sound of that. With Caroline gone, he felt as if he'd finally closed the door on his past completely; he no longer harbored any secrets from those closest to him, and he no longer had to fear the spectre of his darkest times looming over him. He could put all that behind him and look to the future, which was exactly what he planned to do. With Isabel. With his friends. And with his music.


End file.
